Last weekend, my BFF, Sarah, made me run another 5k with her. Chris said that since I have now run two 5k’s, I am officially a runner. But I don’t think it counts if the ONLY time you run is when your friend drags you through a 5k…
(Do you like our socks???)
I put pictures on Facebook and Twitter and I had so many people congratulating me on being so “athletic.”
I feel like I should clarify.
I am about as athletic as a bag of Doritos. I want to work out. I want to be healthy. But I just don’t have time! And, I know, I know. You make time for what is important. But I have made time for my job, my kids, my husband, this blog, my home life, my church life, and, occasionally, a good book. There just aren’t enough hours in the day for any other priorities right now. So, working out falls to the wayside.
Well, not the wayside exactly. I try to let it fall to the wayside, but freaking Sarah keeps trying to force me into healthy living. At least every other day, Sarah calls to ask me to go do something healthy – walk around the neighborhood (yes, we grew up together, teach together, and we now live in the same neighborhood), go for a jog, explore a nature park, take a yoga class. Every other day, Sarah calls or texts me with some activity for us to try. Which means every other day, I have to come up with an excuse. It’s becoming tiresome.
LET’S STOP THE CHARADE, SARAH!
But, she won’t stop. She is tenacious and unforgiving. It’s kind of like I’ve stepped in chewing gum and it won’t come off my shoe. I keep telling her I liked her better when all we did was drink and shop, but she will have none of my complaints. She’s tough, that Sarah.
So, last weekend, we ran a 5k. Well, “ran” is really ambiguous. Bless her athletic, vegan, little heart. She stuck by me the entire time and pretended to be as winded as I was. I started out alright. For the first mile(ish), I ran pretty good. I was passing people, tossing my hair, and picturing myself looking somewhat similar to those paparazzi pictures of Carrie Underwood when she works out. Then, I got a cramp in my side just as we came up on the first mile marker.
Now, I would like to pause here and appreciate the fact that I even made it a MILE. The last time I ran was in December at a 5k in Sea World. A mile without dying was a miracle to me.
With that cramp, I told Sarah I thought we had to stop and walk a bit.
“Oh, good,” Sarah said politely. “I’m tired, too.”
Now that was just a blatant lie. Sarah runs all the time and I’m pretty sure she doesn’t sweat. Like, ever. So the fact that she pretended to need a break for my sake was nice of her. We slowed to a quick walk pace for about 10 minutes.
“Okay,” I said. “I think I’m ready.”
We started running again for about 5 minutes and then I was POSITIVE I was going to either:
a) throw up
b) pass out
We were running on a cobblestone road and I really think that it was looking down at those cobblestones that made me suddenly get sick to my stomach. Well, those and the fact that in the past two months I hadn’t run further than to my car in the Target parking lot when it was raining. I told Sarah we had to stop.
“Oh, good,” Sarah chirped happily. “I’m winded.”
But she didn’t look winded. She looked windblown in that sitting-beside-a-breezy-beach-drinking-a-margarita way. But she stopped and walked with me anyway.
And we never ran again.
I walked the last almost two miles and I thought I was going to either:
a) throw up
b) pass out
c) kill someone…preferably Sarah
In the last fourth of a mile, the cameras and crowds started lining the street and yelling to encourage us. I wanted to yell back at them to shut the hell up and let me die in peace, but Sarah insisted that we actually RUN across the finish line. When I started running again, I couldn’t feel my legs. At all. I figured that meant either:
a) I was about to throw up
b) I was about to pass out
c) my legs had actually fallen off sometime during the second mile and I hadn’t even noticed
But, I did it. Dammit. I ran my short, fat legs across that finish line and I even resisted the urge to hit the runners who had already finished the race and looked all fresh-faced as they cheered for us and congratulated us. So, there’s a win. Nobody got punched.
The moral of this pathetic story? Find friends who are lazier than you and who want you to become lazier than them, instead of friends who want you to be healthy and live a long, full life. Those kinds of friends are overrated. So is running.